I’m getting quite into my photography these days. So much so that Kerry is hardly getting a look in with the camera, which is a little unfair seeing as though she paid for it. The beauty of having a reasonable quality digital camera is that it does half the work and you can take a bazillion photos and then only show people the best ones. For example, despite Paul saying I took an enormous amount of photos at Jez and Lou’s weddings I am only releasing a select few for public consumption.
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This is where the wedding itself took place. We didn’t see the actual ceremony as there wasn’t enough space, so I guess we only have Jez and Lou’s word that they are actually married. The whole thing could have been an elaborate hoax to prise wedding presents off us. Of course the wedding probably cost about as much as I earn in a year, but they could have really wanted those matching flannels we bought them.
These are the glasses of pink champagne that the bride and groom were holding prior to being called away to meet and greet the hordes. I’d like to claim credit for this rather arty shot, but I would have never thought to do it if Kerry hadn’t told me to. There is a reason she gets paid to take photos and I don’t.
Paul in his standard photographic posture. He’s such a charmer. Three brownie points to any American who can tell me the cultural and historic significance of the V sign.
Another arty photo, this time of Fountains Abby itself. I must admit it was the best place for a wedding that I’ve ever been to. From the meal through the speeches and the band the whole thing was absolutely fantastic.
This would be a fantastic photo of Paul and Becky if it weren’t for the fact that Paul has a blurred head. It’s not due to my poor photographic skills, his head is naturally that blurred.
Craig and Caroline. In his speech the groom referred to a review of a play that he and Craig had been in where Craig had been described as a “master of slapstick”. Master of slapheads more like! (You don’t like it Craig? You don’t like me referring to your bald head in a detrimental fashion? Then get your own blog and retaliate you baldy shortarse son of a motherless goat).
You can see more of the photo’s here
I’m in love with a shop. Or rather I’m in love with a merchant’s yard. Calder Valley Agricultural Supplies has everything a man could wish for in a retail outlet. It has big bits of wood that give you nasty splinters and nails that they weigh out using an old fashioned balance scale. It’s got chicken wire and electric fences and bags upon bags of animal feeds. It’s got obscure tools that appear to be a cross between a pair of wire cutters and a hammer. It‘s got a message board advertising livestock for sale that give you ideas that would throw your wife into a panic if she knew about them. And most importantly it’s got sale staff who are willing to pretend that they don’t know that you have no idea what you are doing.
I’m back on a gardening kick again. I wont bore you with the details of what I’m planning to do over the next few months. Suffice to say it involves me traipsing mud all over the house and hitting various parts of my anatomy with a hammer. The first phase of operation Get Back Into The Garden was to go shopping for supplies, hence my visit to the agricultural supply yard. I’m very proud of my purchases. I got 20 rustic fence posts for around £1.50 and fifty meters of chicken wire for £35 that would have cost me £4 and £60 respectively at B&Q. Of course I had to pay VAT on top, but I don’t count that.
I’ve got quite a few days coming up when Amy is at nursery and I’m off work, so I’m planning on getting quite a bit done in the garden. However I am very tempted to go to the Great Yorkshire Show at some point this week, so my plans may be put back a day or two. I’m getting very agricultural these days, perhaps I should jack it all in and become a farmer.
I’ve been messing around with the way the comments are displayed on the blog with the help of this handy page. Let me know what you think.
Amy likes to paddle. Present her with a shallow stream and she’s flinging her socks and shoes over her shoulder before you can stop her. The actual temperature doesn’t appear to have a bearing on her enthusiasm; I’ve had numerous conversations with her about the disadvantages of paddling in streams while it’s cold enough to still have snow on the ground.We live about as far from the coast as it is possible to live in England, and while Amy has seen the sea in the past I doubt she remembers it. Spylaw is around 20 minutes from Bamburgh beach and we spent at least a few hours there most days. The weather wasn’t ideal, even on the hot days the wind took the heat out of the air and the North Sea isn’t renowned for its gentle Mediterranean warmth. Still, she splashed around with enthusiasm and participated in the traditional shrieking as she ran away from the waves.
I also had a great time, having rediscovered my love of playing in the sand. There was something quite cool about building a minature castle while the real thing was in the background. It took great restraint to stop myself from preventing Amy “helping†me with my masterpieces. Kerry didn’t enjoy it quite as much as she wasn’t able to get as involved as she’d have liked. She’s reached the stage in her pregnancy where she’s getting a lot of back aches and this puts a few limits on her activities, sometimes she can only give me a piggy back for 25 meters before she has to stop for a rest.
Amy also rediscovered her love of eating sand while we were there. We were hoping that having being soaked in seawater the salt would put her off, but it only appeared to enhance the flavour. Apparently it’s “yummy†but I remain to be convinced.
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As Deb has pointed out I am now without beard. Every now and again when my hair starts looking too much like Wolverine’s Kerry has a hack at it with the clippers. I usually trim my beard at the same time, but this time I decided to take it all off on impulse. I didn’t like it initially, feeling that I had gone from Wolverine to Mole Man, but as times gone on I’ve got used to it. Amy was pretty fascinated in the beginning, regularly pointing to my face and exclaiming “No beard!†but she too has grown used to the change and has gone back to pointing out food stains on my shirts.Â
It’s funny how eager people are to point out how much they disliked your appearance before you shaved. It’s always women who are guilty of this. I wouldn’t dream of going up to a colleague at work and saying “I’m glad you aren’t wearing that red jumper today – you looked absolutely awful in it†but they don’t hesitate to express their loathing of facial hair as soon as you resort to the razor. Similarly if men talked about cellulite in the same manner that women talk about back hair we’d be lynched (do you detect a hint of bitterness here).
Anyway the beard has gone for the foreseeable future. I’ve always known it makes me look older, but professionally this has generally been a good thing. People tend to take someone who’s advising them on how to live their life more seriously if they feel they have a bit of experience behind them. These days I actually do have a bit of experience behind me, and looking older is no longer quite as desirable.
Of course the beard did hide my double chin.
There are a large number of imaginary poles that divide humanity: Man / Woman, homosexual / heterosexual, conservative / liberal. When we learn that we are about to cross the border between non-parent / parent we tend to assume that our lives will continue much as they have done. Oh yes, we tell people that we know that things are going to change and joke about future sleep deprivation and smelly nappies, confident that ultimately we’re going to be the same person post parenthood as we were pre. To be fair maybe some people do anticipate that things will never be the same, but I know I didn’t.
I didn’t anticipate the feeling that my heart would explode if I felt even a gram more love for my child, only to have my emotions quadruple every time she takes each tiny step into adulthood. I didn’t anticipate the complete loss of my previous agendas, and the certain knowledge that I had found my meaning in life. I didn’t anticipate that I would no longer be able to watch a film where a child was placed in the remotest of danger without feeling physically sick with anxiety.
Paul and Becky have discovered they are pregnant. They remind me of Kerry and I in many respects (aside from we’re much better looking obviously), and I’m very confident that they will make wonderful parents. They’re kind and intelligent, funny and sociable, and Paul lends me comics, which is always good. I really don’t want to sound an arse when I say they don’t know how good it’s going to get from here on, but they probably don’t. But they’re going to have a great time finding out.
Congratulations guys.
Paul has started a blog to record the journey. My blog doesn’t exactly have a readership of hundreds but if anyone fancies popping over there and writing a few words of encouragement in his comments I’m sure it would be appreciated. I’m fairly convinced that I wouldn’t have got past one or two entries on this blog if it weren’t for a few nice comments from Greg and Deb.
On her way to bed this evening Amy stumbled and bashed her head against the door. Pointing at the tears streaming down her cheek she wimpered
“Look Daddy, the drops are coming out my eyes.”
On our arrival at Spylaw Andy told us to avoid the area at the bottom of the cherry orchard, as the bees in the hive there were particularly active at the moment. He illustrated this warning by pointing out a throbbing red bee sting on his face. I am naturally predisposed to avoiding cherry orchards anyway, having had a particularly torturous encounter with Chekhov in my late teens, but hordes of angry bees only added to the incentive. There is also a risk that Amy is allergic to bees as both my grandmother and my sister are. While watching someone’s head balloon to twice it’s regular size as they go into anaphylactic shock is rather amusing when it’s happening to your sister, I imagine it is rather less so when it’s your daughter and you are forty five minutes from the nearest hospital.
We left the bees alone and they returned the favour. That is until Tuesday afternoon when, returning from an enjoyable day at the beach, we noticed a chorus of buzzing. Outside the window were around twenty bees, all throwing themselves at the glass. After a frantic tour of the house ensuring all the windows were shut, and the forcible ejection of a couple of bees which had got in through the chimney, we were left to ponder the meaning of the assault. Scenes from The Birds kept replaying themselves through my head, and I had visions of swarms of bees sitting menacingly on climbing frames around the country poised to reclaim the earth for the insects.
The reality however was a little more mundane. Andy had removed one tier of their hive for maintenance and the bees were merely looking for somewhere else to set up home. Once the hive was put back together normality resumed.
That is until the chickens attacked.
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